My Ancient & Totally Real Origins

Dearest mortals, simps, and lost Hot Topic employees—gather round, for I, Lady Risa Tsuki (definitely not Rita from the trailer park, despite what my “legal documents” say), have slogged through eons of eyeliner and spectacular failure to bring you the wisdom of my immortal lineage. Only I, the self-anointed Duchess of Discount Darkness, possess knowledge forged in the fires of seventeen failed open mic nights and one unfortunate incident involving expired glue-on fangs.

First—fangs. Real vamps got bite. Me? I’ve been supergluing these dollar-store chompers in so long, my gums look like burnt pizza crust. If your vampire pal can’t finish a monologue without choking on a bicuspid, congrats, you’ve found another cosplayer whose closest brush with immortality is a group photo outside Olive Garden.

My wardrobe? I rock “all black everything” with the dedication of a mall goth two weeks into puberty. Spot someone with rogue white socks? Toss ‘em back to the Dave & Buster’s they crawled out of. Brooding is my art—if sighing and journaling about my “eternal pain” was a sport, I’d be a hall-of-famer. But if you ever see a so-called vampire smiling with actual joy or eating garlic knots, alert the authorities: you’ve found Karen from HR who lost her invite to the wine mixer.

Skincare? Please. The other “undead” hit Sephora, praying for that ancient pallor, while I achieve peak pastiness via LED screens and never leaving my mom’s basement. “What’s your regimen?” It’s called being allergic to sunlight and employment.

Blood? Forget it. I’m rocking Red Bulls and off-brand energy shots so hard my heart could outpace a hummingbird. If she’s sipping Starbucks and babbling about “manifesting,” congratulations: you’ve got a basic bitch with a fake cape.

Social life? Real vampires are mysterious, but I remind you I exist seventeen times a day via newsletter, TikTok, and random Yelp reviews. If your “immortal” has fewer followers than your Aunt Marge’s canning blog, that’s a hard pass.

My “ancient crypt” is a converted laundry room, and my “ring light mastery” means not blinding myself while filming thirst traps for GoblinTok. Have you seen my interpretive dance with dollar store goblins? That’s my true legacy: maximum cringe, minimum talent.

Lastly, the paperwork. Anybody can Photoshop a fake vampire certificate. But only I—Lady Risa Tsuki, the self-proclaimed notarizer of the netherworld—will sell you one for three easy payments of $66.66. Because nothing says “unholy darkness” like unchecked Venmo requests.

In conclusion, remember: being a fake vampire is hard work. But being Risa Tsuki—a real, ancient, tragically misunderstood legend? That’s a burden of cringe only I can bear. Step aside, mortals—I’ve got another spontaneous Vampire Masterclass Zoom in five, and my fangs are almost dry.

"I didn’t choose the vampire life, the vampire life chose me... then immediately regretted it."

My Totally Real Nighttime Routine (For Supreme Immortal Beauty & Power)

Dearest followers and future creatures of the night, I—Lady Risa Tsuki, ancient influencer and ageless beauty—have graciously decided to divulge the secrets of my supreme nighttime routine. Centuries of refining my rituals (and dodging awkward sunlight moments) have blessed me with flawless immortality, enviable hair volume, and a confidence that can only come from truly believing my own hype.

The moment dusk falls (around 6:15 if my mommy isn’t using the living room), I begin my sacred bathing ritual: moon-charged mineral water. Yes, it’s technically Dasani left on the porch next to my neighbor’s recycling bins, but only the most enlightened can sense the lunar infusion. This rare elixir preps my skin for the hundreds of layers of “Shadow’s Embrace” foundation and seals my undead glow—no, not sweat, it’s mysticism.

Candles lit (birthday leftovers—in black!), I master my precision winged eyeliner using the trembling light of a flickering Herman Munster votive. Some say you need dark magic for the perfect wing; I say, you just need six tries and emotional numbness. I then recite from my collection of ancient poetry (handpicked from the “Dark Quotes” section of Tumblr, 2011–2013 era), weaving spells of angst and misunderstood power.

For nourishment, I craft my world-renowned “blood smoothie”: two cans of bargain Red Bull, a hearty squirt of ketchup, and a dash of guilt for flavor. It’s a concoction passed down for generations—if you consider last Thursday a generation. For best results, fart three times prior to consuming.

Pallor maintenance is essential. Never let sunlight touch your skin—just ask my reflection in the tinfoil-covered apartment window. For particularly stubborn mortal glow, apply foundation shade “Ghosted by Daylight,” available wherever delusion is sold.

Meditative brooding concludes my sacred routine. I recline atop my velvet couch (rental, slightly sticky, don’t ask), staring at the ceiling as I reflect on the cosmic injustice of never being cast in Twilight and still being banned from the local blood bank (it was one sample cup, Brenda, let it go).

As I settle in for my daily Shadow Selfie session—carefully curating multiple angles for optimal CryptTok engagement—I remember the ultimate truth: true immortality means never running out of dry shampoo, never lacking a clever clapback for haters, and always knowing deep down that, even if the world doubts you, you can just keep starting new accounts.

"To be truly immortal is to never give up on your content schedule, no matter how cursed your WiFi signal or your life choices."